


Three Years She Grew

by pearypie



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M, Letters, Longing, Remembrance, Tommy bares his soul, and gives a confession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 04:21:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8356954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: 1927. Tommy writes Grace a letter.





	

_Grace—_

 

It’s storming today. Actually, it’s been storming everyday. The clouds are grey and the rain’s relentless. Charlie’s been helpless, trapped inside before deciding _to hell with it_ and climbing out the garrison window. It's usually John who catches and throws him back inside. 

He’s got your spirit. Stubborn as a mountain ox.

Though you’re twice as pretty.

Charlie asks about you. He looks for you everywhere in the house and I want him to know that you’re here. You’re everywhere. The wallpaper, the furniture, the Greenwich chandeliers—they’re all yours and they always will be. I kept that atrocious rosewood dining table you handpicked—the one with clawfoot legs and etched ivy. It’s a perfect monstrosity though I can’t understand why you love it so much. Pol hates it but she doesn’t say anything; in fact, I’m fairly sure she pretends it isn’t there. She’s always been good at pretending. Much better than me. 

I smoke more. I drink more. I do everything in excess these days. If I was decent, if I had some of that gentleman’s courtesy—that gentleman’s agreement—I wouldn’t commit any of this to paper. But I’ve learned to say _fuck it_ to most of life’s regulations and I don’t mind saying once more. Maybe this would sound better if I had a cup of tea in front of me. Would that impress you, just a bit? I’d like to say it doesn’t matter but it does.

I want you to know that I, Thomas Shelby, am taking Shelby Brothers cross continental. To New York.

To America.

I can’t tell you the number of times Arthur’s told me it’s a stupid idea. Or how Finn’s complained that the only good thing colonials can contribute is anarchy. I don’t think he means it—not one bit. He just wants to be able to complain, direct a bit of righteous anger towards me.

I can’t blame him.

Would you believe your amiable husband has gone half mad since you left? Difficult, isn’t it? To imagine my desolation, sitting like some dead solider, smoking a cigarette and thinking _my god. How pathetic have I become?_ Pretense should bring me shame. Anger should make me forget. Or maybe even the passing of time. But I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again— _fuck it._ Fuck those conventions.

I can’t forget you. I won’t.

I’ve got Charlie. I’ve got our son, I’ve got your _gift._ And I’ve never been terribly clever but even a man such as myself knows that time is a bitter poison but you’ve given me an antidote to hold death off—at least for a while. I can’t imagine going old and grey without you. Can you see me sitting on some front porch at the age of eighty, smoking my pipe and wondering what the world’s come to? I’d drink whisky, because there’s no one left to impress. 

It’s 1927 and you’re still here. 

It’s 1927 and I still write.

I don’t know why I do it Grace—or better yet, I do. Life, business, everything—it seems damned empty while you’re away.

(How can that be? You’re with us but you’re not and—you're still a mystery, Grace, even from beyond the grave.)

Sing for me, won’t you? A song. One song. Stand there and sing for me.

 

I’ll write you soon.

_Thomas_

 

—Charlie wants you to know it’s almost his birthday. He’s getting a chocolate cake with candied violets that he chose himself. He says they’d match the color of your dress and that he’d like to see you wear it to his party. Don’t worry, Grace—he’ll know you’re there. Always. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title comes from William Wordsworth's poem of the same name. (Part of his 'Lucy' series. An exploration of love, loss, death, and grief.) 
> 
> A/N: Am I over Grace’s death? NOPE. And neither is Tommy. Still missing our angelic songbird.


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